


dancing on tiptoes (my own secret ceremonials)

by orphan_account



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: F/F, brief appearances by Virion, loose interpretation of plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-20
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2019-03-07 03:01:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13425342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: a chance encounter between two people leads to a world of change.or, cherche and olivia fall in love over the course of two wars.





	dancing on tiptoes (my own secret ceremonials)

**Author's Note:**

> title from: only if for a night - florence + the machine  
> gift for a friend. any and all mistakes are mine. i hope you enjoy!

A theatre troupe is to arrive soon at the gates of Rosanne, and Cherche is far from endeared to the idea of it all.

She is in the midst of cleaning off the dining table when she hears of it — listens to the gossip other maids and manservants chatter on about as they polish off the dishes, clean off the silver cutlery and platters.

“Oh, Cherche, dear, did you hear of the troupe visiting later this evening?” One of the head chefs asks her, lifting a wooden ladle from the stew they are preparing for dinner.

Cherche twists her fingers into the towel she’s folding, nods primly. “Yes, of course. A popular topic amongst us vassals.” Her lips twitch, curl at the corners when the chef laughs heartily, swings back to his pot.

“Well, Lord Virion does appreciate all types of entertainment.”

“Yes, he does,” Cherche murmurs, taps her chin in thought. “Wasn’t it just a fortnight previously when he requested the fire-eating jesters?”

(An event she wishes never to be repeated given the amount of screaming and general hysteria she was subjected to that night.)

“That was quite the night, was it not?” the chef recollects, a nostalgic, almost wistful, expression flitting across his face.

Cherche scoffs. Brushes a strand of hair behind her ear. “A night I wish not to remember.”

The chef pats her on the shoulder when he twists around again, sifting through the drawers in search of his wooden utensils. His clap is enough to jostle her in place, his laughter boisterous as he adds his own thoughts of that…  _particular_  encounter.

And Cherche finds herself returning it — smile curving her lips, small puffs of laughter escaping — despite the grimace at the revolting memory.

(It’s enough to distract her from the troupe coming to town and the inevitable suffering she’ll endure due to its antics.)

///

She slips out of the manor when the sun begins to slip beneath the horizon line.

Her duties have long since been finished, and Virion has yet to summon her for any other menial task — Lord Virion, for some peculiar reason, tends to call upon her for most things, isn’t fazed by her sharp tongue and even sharper smile.

(Sometimes Cherche wonders if he enjoys having a servant who will snap back whenever irked, a servant whose mettle is far from laughable.)

Cherche walks along the beaten paths, dirt scuffing against the soles of her boots. A familiar march to the stables, where her closest companion resides. She fiddles with the parcel she holds in her hands, the raw meat red against the cloth she wrapped it in.

Before she even pulls open the door, she hears the keening whine of her leathery friend, the rumble of shifting limbs, and Cherche steps inside, a small, fond grin stretching across her face because oh, her darling wyvern is adorable.

Dark scales shimmer in the low lamplight of the stables, leathery wings folded tight against its sides, claws scratching aimlessly at the wooden flooring. Its nostrils flare, smoke pluming from them.

And Cherche laughs, soft and lilting. Reaches over the edge of the stall and smooths her palm across the snout.

“Now, now, Minerva,” she coos, nails tracing the scales gently. Pops up on her toes and settles her meat parcel on the corner of the pen. “Must you be so impatient.”

(Her darling wyvern is the only memory from her childhood that she still holds dear.

The recollections of Wyvern Valley foggy and hazy due to the passage of time. But she remembers herself at nine years of age, surviving Minerva’s vicious fire breath with nothing but a stake in her hands.)

Minerva screeches, nuzzling into Cherche’s hands, and she can’t help but laugh again, feeling it bubble in her throat, her chest warm, warm, warm with her wyvern pressing against her.

(She by no means despises residing in Rosanne. Being favored by the lord in charge certainly has its perks — though, having servant duties thrusted upon her offers no joy.

But on the occasion, she still feels the itch of her axe, the desire to strike down an enemy.)

(Because she was and will always be a knight, first and foremost.)

Cherche pulls away, gaze incredibly warm and tender as she unlatches to door to the corral. She moves into the stall, smiles at the slithering tail sweeping across the strewn about hay on the floor.

“Oh how I wish I could take you flying,” Cherche murmurs, resting her forehead against the cheek of her scaly beast, fingers sliding across the smooth surface of its neck. Minerva huffs out a breath, the hot steam of its breath a slight burn against Cherche’s skin.

“All right, all right.” Cherche makes a show of rolling her eyes, retrieving the raw meat from where she left it. “Here you are.”

She plucks out a slab, wet and cold against her palm, and extends it toward the wyvern. Watches as the creature snatches the meat between its teeth, eats it ravenously, and Cherche cannot stifle the laughter that pushes at her lips.

She sets the parcel down and slides it toward Minerva, content to watch her wyvern shovel the food down, mouth covered by her unsoiled hand as she fights the grin that tugs at the corner of her lips.

///

Moments pass (time eludes her entirely), and Cherche is well aware that she must return to the manor, to Lord VIrion specificaly, but she feels at ease here, stroking her wyvern as it falls into deep slumber after finishing its meal.

The peace, however, is ruined when the sounds of clamor and crashing reach her ears. Cherche darts to her feet, spine straightening and feet righting themselves along the wooden floorboards.

Her fingers twitch at her side — there is that familiar tug of want for her axe again, ever so present — and she strains to make out the shadows at the entrance of the stables.

“The stables are private on these grounds,” she calls out, calm and steady.

(A steadiness commended by Virion himself whenever she so much as deals with an insufferable manservant without delivering a blow in retaliation.

A steadiness that her fellow vassals have learned to fear, her smiles cold, eyes sharp and steely.)

There’s a fumbling of movement in the darkness of the entrance, a scrambling of footsteps and a soft grunt of pain when skin smacks into wood.

Cherche frowns, brow furrowing, and she makes a move forward, edging closer to the intruder. As she nears, the figure finds their footing, stumbles backward from the shadows and into the light casted out by the lanterns inside the stable.

Cherche’s frame stretches a long shadow across the dirt, and she pauses, surprise flitting across her face when she sees the young woman before her, all fidgeting limbs and downcast eyes. Apologies rapidly leaving her lips.

“I-I am so terribly sorry,” the woman stutters out, arms wrapped around herself, decorative sashes hanging from her arms, her waist. “I was wandering about hoping to find a place to practice my dancing without others to witness, and I didn’t realize that I—”

“—Are you a member of the theatre troupe Lord Virion called for?” Cherche interrupts, keeps her tone polite, cordial (she isn’t  _cruel_  — and there’s something about this woman that has her biting back the frigidness that creeps along her tongue).

The woman’s eyes dart around, refusing to meet Cherche’s. She twists her fingers together, holds her hands close to her chest. “Yes,” she answers quietly, curling in on herself.

And oh, Cherche doesn’t want to startle this woman anymore than she already has. Doesn’t have the heart to callously point her in the proper direction.

She steps toward her, stands beside this member of the troupe and reaches out to touch her elbow, to guide her back down the path and toward the manor, but the woman flinches back, plaited hair slipping over her shoulders from the jerky motion.

The woman smiles sheepishly, still avoiding her eyes. “My apologies, Miss.”

Cherche retracts her hand. Takes the rebuff in stride and gestures back up the road. “Shall we return to the manor? I’m certain there are more suitable places to practice than the stables.”

The woman ducks her head, the back of her neck flushed — from nervousness or anxiety, Cherche is not quite certain. “Thank you…?” Her eyes briefly flick to Cherche’s before skittering away, her voice tapering off.

“Cherche,” Cherche offers, tilting her head and pasting a gentle smile on her face.

“Olivia,” the woman returns, still wringing her hands ( _nervous and anxious_ , Cherche decides as she takes in the stilted, jittery motions).

“A beautiful name,” Cherche finds herself saying, hoping to ease the agitation and tension wafting off the woman in waves. “For a beautiful woman.”

If anything, Olivia flushes a brighter red. Curls a little more into herself, shoulders hunching and arms tightening around her torso. “Th-thank you kindly.”

Cherche wonders for a brief moment if she should apologize for being too forward, but thinks better of it. She doesn’t push to pursue any further conversation, doesn’t think to when the woman walking at her side is so withdrawn. Skittish in the way her eyes dart around, fingers clench a little tighter around her biceps.

When they return to the main entryway, music already playing, the denizens of Rosanne roaming the streets beneath the brightly hung lanterns, Cherche turns to Olivia. Offers an amiable smile.

“Well, here we are.” She sweeps a hand toward the tents lining the sides, a man hollering for what she assumes are the members for the troupe.

Olivia’s gaze snaps up, a ragged breath escaping her lips. She glances at Cherche from the corner of her eye, throat bobbing as she swallows.

(Cherche feels a surge wash over her body, something akin to the fierce protectiveness she felt when she’d first laid eyes on Minerva — curled into itself, wariness and fear rooted in its frame.)

She tilts her head, offers a slanted smile to the trembling troupe member beside her. “There’s a small alcove on the other side of the manor. Very little people pass by there.” Olivia manages to quell her quivering for a moment. “Perhaps a place to practice?”

There’s a quick beat of silence before Olivia’s lips twitch in a small, grateful smile. She bows at the waist, winces when the troupe leader’s voice sounds again. Her gaze slips to his commanding form before swiveling back to Cherche.

“Thank you, Cherche,” Olivia says softly, a warm pink blush splashed across her cheeks.

Cherche nods, smile still in place as the woman more or less scampers away, light footsteps retreating in the direction Cherche had pointed her toward.

With one last glance in the dancer’s direction, Cherche pivots on her heel and returns to the kitchen to assist in the last remaining preparations for the show.

///

Cherche is reluctant to step outside to witness the theatre troupe’s performances, but with the cajoling of her fellow vassals, she finds herself outside in the yards, stone roads steady beneath her feet, lights glimmering in her peripherals.

Her attention is snagged when she notices a circle, a ring of people surrounding some performers. Or rather, just one performer.

As she inches closer, snaking through the throngs of bodies that are cheering — some, Cherche notes, are whistling.

And oh, when she emerges from the crowds she sees  _Olivia_. Dancing with such grace across the stone, movements smooth and so unlike the jittering, stilted motions of before.

Olivia dances with finesse, body curving and arching, and Cherche is  _entranced_  by the performance, mesmerized by the sight before her. And her eyes, ever so keen, pick out the familiar flush across Olivia’s cheeks.

Red and staining, but she moves with such elegance that the nervousness and anxiety that Cherche had detected before is all but nonexistent here, in the heat of it all.

As she watches, spellbound by the performance before her, Cherche barely catches it. Barely catches how Olivia meets her eyes for a quick second — a spark of  _something_  passing between their electrified connection.

(She’d be lying if she said her breath didn’t catch in her throat.)

///

The troupe stays in Rosanne for the next couple of days, bustling through the lands and occasionally the manor as they pack up their tents and attractions in preparation for their departure.

Cherche finds herself drawn to them, often offering her services to assist in any way she can.

(Envious, almost, of their freedom to come and go as they please.

Her hands itch for an axe, for the wind whipping past her face as she glides through the sky on Minerva.)

VIrion watches her in amusement, something like knowing in his eyes, but Cherche tilts her chin up at his suggestive smiles, works her sharp tongue whenever he so much as makes a remark.

“Oh, dearest Cherche,” Virion laughs when he follows her into the gardens, her shears snapping roughly along the hedges. “There is a spark of something simply…  _magnifique_  about you, ma cherie.”

She doesn’t refrain from rolling her eyes, clicking her tongue impatiently. “I am not having this discussion with you.”

“But, ah,” Virion sidles up to her, leans in close enough that Cherche has to crane her neck to keep a distance between them. “You are enamored.”

“No,” Cherche says tersely. “You’re mistaken.”

“Yet you spend all of your time around that troupe beyond our walls,” Virion murmurs, voice silky against her ears, and Cherche steps away, tightens her grip around the handle of her shears. “You are normally so…” He lifts a hand, furls his fingers. “Opposed to these affairs.”

She tuts, eyes Virion from the corner of her vision. “Oh, honestly,  _sire_.” He winces, holds his hands up in a placating manner.

“I mean no harm.”

“Of course.” She nods, satisfied with her trimmings.

“But,” he stretches the word, arches a brow as he snatches a blooming rose from the bushes. “There is someone, isn’t there? Someone who has finally captured the attention of such a minx like yourself.”

Cherche pauses in her tracks, contemplates the repercussions of smacking the lord presiding over her upside the head. She smiles instead, sharp and cold, and oh, Virion takes a step back, expression just slight of nervous.

She doesn’t deign to offer another response before she turns on her heel and leaves, stopping by one of the many tool sheds to deposit her shears as well as the dirt-stained gloves in her hands.

She steps out, brings a hand to her forehead, brushing away strands of hair that had fallen into her eyes during her tasks, and makes for the entranceway to the manor, looking just beyond to the tents being unraveled and packed away.

The troupe leader waves enthusiastically at her, bellows a  _thank you ma’am!_  as she passes, and Cherche dips her head his way, smiles warmly.

“Ch-cherche?”

She stops at the familiar stutter, finds her lips parting, smile widening, unbidden. “Olivia,” she greets, the dancer clearly flustered, eyes downcast once more, feet shifting in place. “I never had the chance to mention how wonderful your dancing is.”

Olivia blushes, a bright red not unlike the flush that splotched her skin the night of the performance. “Thank you. I am glad you found it to your liking.”

Cherche clicks her tongue, folds her arms across her chest to deter herself from reaching out. “Is there a reason you won’t meet my eyes?”

(She’s reminded, abruptly, of how skittish and afraid Minerva had been the first time she’d properly approached the wyvern.)

Olivia winces, and Cherche is sorry she even brought attention to the glaring observation, but the dancer pushes herself to speak. The effort visible in the way she straightens her shoulders, uncurls the kink in her spine.

“I…” She licks her lips, peers around nervously. “I am rather embarrassed to admit that I actually have…” She hesitates, but Cherche smiles encouragingly, prodding her gently onward. “I have stage-fright.”

“Oh,” Cherche finds herself breathing out, surprised by the admission. She leans forward, curious. “And yet you dance so beautifully before audiences.”

Olivia laughs, and it sounds strained, forcefully pushed from her lungs. Her eyes are skittering around the grounds, and Cherche takes pity on the poor dancer. Steps away so that more space is between them.

“Well, with talent like yours I’m sure you can become more than just a dancer for a troupe,” Cherche offers in hopes of bolstering the girl’s obvious lack of confidence.

“You really think so?” Olivia breathes, a glimmer in her eyes when she looks up at last. And oh, the paleness of her eyes is just as bewitching as the way her body arched that night.

“I do.”

“Hey, Olivia! We’re leaving. Let’s go!”

It’s one of her troupe members, and Olivia stammers back a response, all flailing limbs and tumbling words. She looks back at Cherche, expression apologetic. But Cherche dismisses it with a wave of her hand and a tiny smile.

“It looks like your talent is wanted elsewhere,” she smiles, and Olivia flushes a darker shade, grins softly in return. Cherche reaches out then, smooths her hand along Olivia’s arm. “Good luck. You’ll do well out there.”

Olivia gazes at her with wide eyes, lips parting before she nods, stumbles away with a little wave in her direction, returning to her group as they carry on their merry way. Cherche stands in the square until they disappear into the horizon.

She presses the hand she’d been gently gripping Olivia with to her chest, and it’s then that she realizes how quickly its beating.

Fast and fluttery beneath her fingertips.

(How curious, she thinks later as she washes Minerva’s scales.)

///

A letter is dangled in her face a mere few weeks later, Virion grinning his infuriating smile, eyebrows raised high along his forehead.

Cherche takes it from him with a returned glare that has him laughing, nervous but still boisterous as he disappears from the foyer, off to woo another woman in Rosanne no doubt (he was always the one to pursue, after all).

She watches him leave, mildly exasperated by her lord’s behavior, but not bothered enough to tell him off ( _again_ ).

She looks at the folded parchment in her hands, carefully unfolds it. And oh, pleasant surprise rushes through her lungs, gets caught in the space between her ribs.

It’s from Olivia.

///

Their correspondence is sporadic with Olivia traveling along the many countries of the world and Cherche picking up the slack left behind by other servants inside the manor.

It started with Olivia thanking her for believing in her talent, assuring her that her dancing is magnificent and will soon be beloved by the masses at large. And Cherche tells Olivia of her days in Rosanne, describes the delicate shades of flowers blooming in the garden, the glistening surface of the river running along the outskirts.

The letters are simple, unassuming, and Cherche soon forgets about the way her pulse beat so rapidly in the dancer’s presence.

Olivia replies back one day with a message that tells Cherche that she’s settled down after months of touring the lands, left the troupe behind her.

_I’ve been invited to stay in Regna Ferox_ , Cherche reads as she sits at her desk, a quill twirling in her other hand.  _The Khan, Basilio, welcomed me when a noble attempted to kidnap me in order to wed me._

Cherche’s brow creeps high at that, an icy sort of anger coursing through her veins at the thought of a noble attempting to grab her dancer friend — a familiar surge of protectiveness that reminds her of the first time she encountered Olivia.

She writes back, distaste edging her words as she asks if Olivia’s all right and if she’s enjoying the colder climate of the Feroxi lands.

(It’s easy, this exchange of words.

It feels so reminiscent of the freedom Cherche no longer can deny that she craves.

The way words flow between them, uninhibited, open and simple.)

///

There is talk of war brewing between Ylisse and Plegia, and for a moment, Cherche worries.

Regna Ferox is a known ally of the Ylissean kingdom, and Cherche spends several hours a night, lying awake and praying to Naga that Olivia doesn’t get caught up in the fray should a full-scale war erupt between the two kingdoms.

The letter she receives in the next coming days allays the anxiety Cherche feels when Olivia assures her that she’s fine and that Basilio shows no desire to partake in the border squabbles as of that point in time.

It is enough to put Cherche’s concerns at rest for the time being.

///

In the following weeks that stretch into months, Virion disappears to Ylisse, citing that Exalt Emmeryn has called upon his services.

“You’ll be in charge, my dear Cherche,” VIrion tells her as she watches him sling his bow over his shoulders, count the arrows in his quiver.

“Of course, sire.” There isn’t a bite to her words this time. She stands stiffly at the doorway, the ache for her axe more prevalent now than ever.

He must catch the deviation from her normally antagonizing tone because he whips around and narrows his eyes, scrutinizing. “Don’t tell me you’re worried about me.” Cherche rolls her eyes, and Virion lets out a laugh. “Hah! There she is.”

He smiles, moves toward the door. “Take care of Rosanne in my absence, ma cherie.”

Cherche nods, solemn, and Virion vanishes.

(The relief she’d felt before has long since dissipated.)

///

Word of Prince Chrom’s war campaign against the Mad King Gangrel of Plegia reaches Rosanne in little time.

Cherche hears talk of it every time she steps out of the manor.

The atmosphere is tense, fraught with worry over relatives that reside in Ylisse.

Cherche feels a nagging sense of dread tugging at the back of her mind.

///

Olivia’s next letter tells of Regna Ferox’s change of leadership. The East-Khan, Flavia, has taken control of the lands due to Prince Chrom’s victory over Basilio’s champion in the timeless tradition of the Feroxi Tournament.

Flavia has offered her assistance to the Ylissean prince’s war efforts.

Cherche doesn’t sleep that night.

///

Sometimes, Cherche wonders why she feels so strongly about Olivia’s potential involvement in the war.

She tries to reason that it is because Olivia is a  _dancer_ , and dancers are far from equipped for any type of combat. And the thought of Olivia facing down a blade, anxiety already so rampant in the way she holds herself, only strikes fear in Cherche’s heart.

She chalks it up as worry over her friend’s well-being.

(They’ve been in correspondence for months now, and Cherche’s beginning to feel that all too familiar uptick in her heartbeat every time she receives a letter.)

(She despises it, truly.)

///

Regna Ferox officially joins in the war against Plegia.

Cherche feels her throat tighten, worry clawing relentlessly as she tries to breathe.

///

She starts spending more of her nights in the stables with Minerva than in her own bed, lamenting over the fact that she is incapable of leaping into the fray to assist.

Loathe as she is to admit, Cherche misses the battlefield. The adrenaline pumping through her veins as she swings her mighty axe from atop Minerva’s back.

The rush of felling her enemies in battle, the wind against her skin when Minerva swoops in for a finishing blow.

(She wonders if Olivia would find her so prim and kind if she knew of the sort of freedom Cherche really sought.)

///

Exalt Emmeryn falls. Prince Chrom takes the mantle.

Silence descends upon Rosanne for days at a time, and Cherche doesn’t need to read the contents of Olivia’s next letter — simply has to note the crinkled corners, the tears in several areas due to a quill pressed to harshly against parchment — to know that Olivia is mourning.

(Olivia always did have a soft heart.)

///

Virion returns to Rosanne with little fanfare.

His customary well-kept appearance is ruffled, tattered around the edges. His smile that used to be so coquettish is wan, tired, and Cherche doesn’t push for any details of the battle her lord witnessed.

Days pass with little to note. Olivia’s letters come more frequent now that she’s returned from the battlefront. Unharmed, thankfully, and still reeling from how her dancing managed to inspire the friends she’d made amongst the Shepherds (a strange name for an army, Cherche has to say).

Cherche smiles fondly as she can almost feel Olivia’s wonderment through her written script, replies back with  _I told you so_  and  _I’m so proud of you_. Because oh, she is.

///

She doesn’t know when she starts dreaming of Olivia, her soft frame dancing in the silver light of the moon.

But she wakes with a yearning in her heart, and an unfamiliar longing tugging at her bones.

///

They don’t see each other for another two years.

Their lives are busy and never seem to intersect, but Cherche doesn’t mind all too much. Doesn’t despair over it. The letters are enough to stymie that want for now, a comfort she relishes in whenever her life trickles back into mundane normalcy.

VIrion is back to his wily ways. Attempting to charm every woman he sees, sitting at the head of his dining table as he sleeps on his wealth.

Cherche finds a rhythm again, snapping at her lord whenever he steps out of line — which tends to happen far too often for Cherche’s liking. She’s always polite about her reprimands, but the steel behind her words manages to temper his dalliances.

Olivia writes of how she’s returned to touring the land with her troupe, dancing in front of cheering audiences and rapturous applause.

Cherche finds time in her schedule to pick up her axe again. Swing with a precision that is still present despite years of disuse. She takes to letting Minerva out of the stables, short flies through the sky whenever time permits.

She writes to Olivia of how she’s taken back the sky, how she feels free in a way she hasn’t felt for years whenever she drifts through the clouds. She describes how the world looks from high above.

Olivia replies that she wishes she could witness the earth’s beauty from up above.

Cherche wishes she could, too.

///

It sneaks up on them, the change in leadership of Valm.

It almost goes unnoticeable until the new leader, a dictator in Cherche’s opinion, begins his own warpath against the provinces of Valm.

Walhart is his accursed name.

He takes the kingdom of Valm by storm, his calvary gaining more and more renown as he conquers one town after the next.

Tensions thicken, and Cherche notices the way Virion grows quieter and quieter by the day. His stiff posture against his chair, his expression crossing more into worry and apprehension as Walhart tears through the land.

Due to its location, Rosanne is most likely going to be one of the last Walhart approaches, but VIrion doesn’t wish to sit around long enough for Walhart to reach them.

“We must leave,” Virion insists, face resting in his hands, elbows digging into his knees.

“And where shall we flee to?” Cherche shoots back, always the face of calm, of practicality. “Sire, we cannot simply abandon your lands. What of the servants? The people who live here? The livestock?”

VIrion looks up at her, expression pinched. He runs a hand through his hair. Frowns in such a way that he doesn’t look like the Virion she knows at all.

“The Exalt,” he whispers, almost like a prayer passing through his lips. “We must warn Exalt Chrom.”

At his words, Cherche finds her heartbeat quickening. The mere prospect of stepping foot on Ylissean soil already making her heart flutter, her stomach twist in anticipation. Ylisse. Regna Ferox is a part of Ylisse.

She may be able to see Olivia.

“Make haste, ma cherie.” Virion goes to stand, begins to gather his things. “We haven’t much time to waste.”

Cherche nods curtly. Disappears into her chambers to collect her own belongings.

When she’s ready, she releases Minerva from the stables. Coos softly when the wyvern screeches loudly, stretches its wings in preparation of flight.

They don’t end up flying. Instead they go by boat, braving the choppy waters as they set sail for the Ylissean coast.

It takes days, and in those days, Cherche sends off quite a number of letters, detailing the events to Olivia, but opting to omit Walhart and the conquest of Valm from the pages. She doesn’t want Olivia to needlessly work herself up.

With wind whipping through her tresses and ocean spray misting her cheeks, Cherche fixes her eyes on the horizon and awaits the sight of land.

///

They arrive in Ylisse and are immediately ushered to the castle where Exalt Chrom is already anticipating their appearance.

Cherche walks at Virion’s side, head held high, proud. She pretends not to be glancing around, constantly on the lookout for a familiar face, a familiar curled stature of a dancer (she doesn’t see her in the crowds).

Chrom listens to their story, brow furrowed and mouth pressed in a thin line. There’s a woman beside him, purple cloak and snowy white hair, scrawling down notes at a rapid pace. She leans close to the exalt, whispers in his ear.

He nods along to whatever she’s saying, a look of pure consternation crossing over his features for a fleeting second.

“This is Robin,” Chrom explains when Cherche shoots the woman a questioning look. “The finest tactician in all of Ylisse.”

The woman,  _Robin_ , dips her head toward Cherche, and Cherche returns the gesture with a nod of her own. Respect already curbing her tongue — she has stories from Olivia of Robin’s masterful,  _creative_  tactics. Strategies that have gotten the Shepherds out of many tight spots on the battlefield.

Cherche tunes out of the conversation, only adding her opinion when Virion veers off topic, often making her lord laugh awkwardly and compliment her barbed tongue. Cherche merely smiles, enjoys watching him squirm.

When the meeting is adjourned, Virion shoos her away.  _Learn the city, ma cherie. We might be here for quite some time._

She abides by his word, wandering the streets of the halidom, exchanging quick words with vendors until she shrugs them off.

Ylisse is different from Rosanne with all of its towering buildings and bustling people; Rosanne is quieter, fields upon fields of flowers and nature, where Ylisse is hard stone and masses of bodies.

Cherche can see the charm of it, enjoys the differences she sees in a city such as this.

“Cherche?”

She stops dead in her tracks, heart racing, racing, racing. An instinctual reaction, because oh, she hasn’t heard that voice in two years (only remembers the cadence of it from her dreams).

She turns slowly, sees Olivia standing a scant few feet away, cloths piled in her arms, shock clear in the way her eyes widen, her mouth parting soundlessly.

“Olivia,” Cherche breathes.

///

It’s impossible to separate them in the days leading up to the inevitable collision with the Valmese army.

Cherche is constantly seeking out Olivia’s company, the dancer doing the same. If any of the other Shepherds notice their constant close proximity, they don’t bring attention to it.

Stories are much more entertaining when they share them in person, heads bent close together, the warmth and comfort of the barracks a pleasant backdrop for their quiet conversations.

(It does nothing to quash to staccato beat of her heart, but Cherche is getting better at ignoring it.)

There are touches now. Innocent touches since Olivia still is averse to contact, usually shying away whenever someone reaches for her.

She doesn’t seem to mind when Cherche brushes her hand against hers though, whenever they are performing chores together (it’s quite surprising how much clothes need washing when participating in a war campaign).

Olivia doesn’t flinch when Cherche goes to grip her elbow, or shoulder, whenever she’s teaching the dancer how to mend the clothing torn in battle.

If anything, Olivia even goes as far as to initiate contact of her own. Slipping her fingers along Cherche’s whenever she takes baskets from her grasp, helps polish weapons in the armory tent.

Though the change is more than welcome, Cherche isn’t quite sure what any of it  _means_.

///

Leaping back into battle is easier than Cherche anticipates.

Mounting Minerva and swooping into the fray feels natural, a part of her that never left when she went to serve Virion.

The swing of her axe is still as powerful and deadly as it was in years past, and Cherche finds herself thrilled and high off the adrenaline of war, Minerva’s fire burning as hot as her desire to free her home from Walhart’s iron grip.

Her companions are skilled fighters, and they work seamlessly together as a unit with Chrom as their leader and Robin as their guide.

To say that Cherche is impressed would be an understatement.

The Shepherds act as one entity, a well-oiled machine in the way they move together — they are…  _family_  in one sense of the word. And when they return from victory, tired and dragging against the beaten paths, the clerics rush to meet them, staffs at the ready.

Cherche leans into Minerva as she tends to its wounds delivered by arrows glancing off its sides. She cleans them diligently, patches them up and smooths her hands along the scales, breathing in the familiar scents of smoke and fire.

There’s a touch at her elbow then, and Cherche blinks. Glances away from her wyvern to see Olivia standing at her side, ointment and bandages in her hands.

She smiles, shy and and embarrassed, but Cherche laughs softly, lips upturned and endlessly fond.

Olivia guides her to a bench, hands steady as they clean the cuts that mar Cherche’s skin. There’s a silence between them, companionable and light, and Cherche doesn’t open her mouth to break it. Loses herself in Olivia’s ministrations.

She must fall asleep at one point because when she comes to, it’s to the soft, feathery sensation of lips against her forehead. A gentle pressure to the skin there, and when blinks her eyes open, Olivia is gazing at her through half-lidded eyes.

And for the life of her, Cherche can’t discern the emotion flickering in their pale depths.

“Thank you,” she whispers, taking in the neatly wrapped bandages around her wounds, her chest tight with that  _feeling_  again.

Oliver reaches out, covers her hands with one of hers. They’re warm, Cherche notes distractedly as Olivia squeezes them.

“You’re welcome,” she replies, equally soft and quiet.

///

There’s a brief moment of respite as they make their way to the Mila Tree.

The trees around them are lush and full and  _green_ , bright and vibrant in a way that reminds Cherche of the gardens in Rosanne.

It’s been far too long since they’ve been surrounded by anything but rock and stone and dirt, and the trees are a welcome change of scenery. She breathes in deeply, rests against one of the many trees as Minerva circles the sky above her.

She sets her axe down and goes to sit when Olivia materializes at her side, looking more nervous than normal, hands twisting around each other, clenching tight. Cherche reaches for them, slips her fingers between them with a questioning tilt of her head.

“Olivia?” She prods gently.

Olivia swallows audibly, flicks her eyes around camp. “Can you accompany me somewhere more private?” Her eyes widen, and she rushes to correct herself. “I - There’s this, this new dance I’ve been working on, and I was thinking that maybe—”

“—Yes,” Cherche interrupts, not unkindly, stopping Olivia’s fumble for words. “I would be honored to see this dance you speak of.”

Olivia blushes, but she tugs Cherche away from the rest of the Shepherds regardless, intent on a location outside of the camp. Cherche allows herself to be pulled, silently delighting in the warm contact between their hands.

When Olivia comes to a stop, they arrive in a small clearing, overhanging branches criss-crossing above them, verdant green leaves fluttering in the gentle breeze. Olivia lets go of her hand, moves toward the center.

And oh, when she glides along the grass blades, body curving in graceful arches of motion, carrying itself with such elegance and poise, Cherche finds herself once more completely enraptured by the movements.

She watches, memorizes every detail, reverent in the way her eyes rake over Olivia’s dancing figure. Olivia keeps her eyes closed as she dances, and Cherche remembers one of the letters that Olivia sent her, telling of how she’s less afraid when she can’t see her audience.

But when she finishes her final leap, chest heaving from the exertion, her eyes open, connect with Cherche’s, and Cherche can’t say anything other than —

“Beautiful,” she lets out, breathless and so utterly enchanted by the woman before her.

And Olivia, dearest Olivia, still flushes at the compliment, sinks to her knees in front of Cherche, fingers fiddling the the sash that hands around her waist.

“Really?”

“Yes,” Cherche says firmly, but it doesn’t come out quite right. It’s strangled, a rush of air between her lips, and oh, it’s a new sensation, but something tugs so violently in her chest, urging her forward.

Olivia’s eyes dart from her knees to her face at that sound, flicker down to her  _lips_ , and Cherche’s throat constricts with an emotion she can’t quite name.

Her body lurches forward, hands pressed against the smooth grass. She tangles her fingers in it, peers into pale eyes that no longer skitter away when Cherche seeks them out.

Cherche tilts her head to the side, breaths spilling from her lips a little too quickly, a little too raggedly — in time with the rapid beat of her heart between her ribs. Olivia remains in place, frozen almost as she stares back just intensely, chest still stuttering with her heavy breathing.

“Olivia,” Cherche leans a little closer, the distance between them closing inch by inch. She reaches up a hand then, tucks a strand of soft, tangled hair behind Olivia’s ear. “ _Beautiful_ ,” she repeats, her fingers lingering against the flushed skin of Olivia’s cheek, curling behind her ear.

Olivia sucks in a breath, fingers twisting into the fabric of stockings as her eyes flit back down to Cherche’s lips.

Cherche smiles then, tilts her head up so that their faces are nearly touching, their breaths mingling in the space between them. The whimper that escapes Olivia then is enough of an answer, and Cherche closes the distance between them.

It’s a gentle kind of kiss, their lips moving slowly together. It isn’t earth-shattering, it doesn’t tip the world on itss axis, but it feels — it feels like  _freedom_ , and the pressure in Cherche’s chest loosens when Olivia hesitantly wraps her arms around her neck. Tugs her closer.

And they lose themselves in each other then, falling into one another and the movement of their lips sliding together.

(Later, Olivia looks at Cherche with such endearment and wonder and ask if it feels anything like flying.  _I still wonder how the world will look from atop Minerva._

Cherche laughs, gazes adoringly at the woman beside her and thinks,  _better_.

It’s better than flying and seeing the world below for the first time.)

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!


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